Shifted
by wakingsparrow
Summary: Sherlock strays - John tries to pull him back.
1. Just Degrees

Note from the author: This is some thing that stemmed from my other story, but didn't end up fitting where I was going. This contains adult themes, so watch yourself.

Enjoy!

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"This," John's voice wavered like a string that needed tuning. Slack, yet taunt enough to reverberate - rough, _Early-morning-John, he hasn't had his tea. _That didn't feel right, it was as if the far corner of the floor had been propped up by just a few degrees. _Off. Not right. Think._

"What is this, Sherlock?"

_No, no. It was hardly past midnight. John had gone out and he had kept talking. Bored._ There was pacing 7.4 meters away from the couch that Sherlock was strewn out upon, a scarf draped across his eyes. _Wanted the dark to think, couldn't be bothered to turn out the lights – switch is in the kitchen. Obviously._ Now he removed it: there was a mystery, a case to be solved. He was missing something; It was just there on the tip of his tongue. _John had gone on a date hours ago. Rather pointless. Not compatible in the long run. Judging by her deviated palate she snores._ The seventh one, if he could recall, it wasn't quite lucid though. The files of each one (_Flowers: carnations, cheap but she's too plain to notice. Flattery, really John? Mazeratti's, had they gone there? No. Yes? He should know this.) _didn't blink up to the surface all the way, like they were underwater. _Odd. _

The detective's head lulled away from the back of the cushions to size John up in a level of slothfulness which certainly wasn't deliberate, but possibly read that way. _Likely. Things are blurred, that's abnormal. Better not become the blind detective Mycroft would never relent.. _"What…" Sherlock enunciated precisely on the 't' - _annoyed_. "Are you on about now?"

John's free hand clenched, the muscles and sinew of his arm becoming taunt up to his neck line. _Trapezius tensing, causing the clavicle to press inward at the throat_. His breath was restricted but came in hard puffs. _Diaphragm contracting, rib cage visibly down and in – up and out_. "Please," John spat. "I'm really not actually an idiot, _you know_."

Though Sherlock's vision was muddled around the edges like frost-nipped glass, he was precisely aware of the edge of John's state. It was rare for the man's temper to break, but when it did it was frightening on so many levels, even the detective heard the tell tale thudding of fear in his ears. _Fear? No, irrelevant. More likely a form of pulsatile tinnitus. Blood rushing up in the vessels of the ear canal. Elevated pressure due to stress, a cocktail of adrenaline and -_

John's voice came out hoarse and virtually feral at the end, breaking just slightly. "This, damn _it_." He brandished the thing Sherlock had sworn he'd tucked away _safely on to the top shelf under the craft bath soap Mrs. Hudson had given him for Christmas (before she new better, scented soap, honestly foul) that no one would ever in their right mind actually use for god's sake it had whole heads of marigolds pressed into it and smelled like the elderly women who've lost their olfactory systems and John certainly couldn't reach without a step stool_…

But perhaps not…things had gotten a bit blurred after it all.

He might have imagined it in his head.

Surely he would have noted the sound of it clacking against the floor tile.

_AH, obvious. _

_Blurred vision, encumbered movement, dulled mental state. So clear, so simple._

"It's a syringe, John." He blinked and collected the few wits he could. "Someone with your medical education should be _aware of that_."

Suddenly John lurched forward and grasped him by his robe, wrenching him up from the couch. The stouter man's face was only inches away, veins in his forehead undulating like snakes just beneath the skin.

"Don't."Teeth ground together; The bachelor closed his eyes for a moment of the clock's tick. _Not clock, the pulsing of blood. Trying to keep himself together. _His eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's and they _blazed. The red was so close. "_Don't you dare act all cheeky right now or so help you…" The voice was ominously encroaching on baritone and unlike any Sherlock had ever attached to John Watson. _It was dangerous. It was violent - raging. And more importantly, it was bearing down upon him as his beloved microscope would with a sample of the black plague._

And it continued like poison slipping out between lips and slowly sucking into his ears…a growl from an animal poised to strike for given any reason…the man before him flooded this brain with more of the emotion of fear than he'd had since Baskerville. _Stupid. He'd overestimated the parameters of the date. Surely by the seventh he'd stay over? Alone in the flat then, nothing to do. So bored. But he'd been very wrong. Will need to research John's frivolous quests for intimacy more thoroughly. _

"What." emphasis on the 't', searing and mocking now, "was in this?" John shifted his clutch on the silk cloth that now became Sherlock's bindings, tightening the grip, weighing any given resistance. _Soldier._ Dark eyes like he'd never seen in his friend before bored into his own, hardly allowing him to breath without some sort of judgment. It was cavernous and ethereal the way John Watson's vocal cords produced his next words – hushed, venomous - echoing around the small space between them like he was everywhere, wavelengths expanding from the sphere of the source around Sherlock's head - down his spine…_nervous system set afire_…

"What the _fuck_ did you take?"

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Shall I continue?


	2. Between Mast and Bilge

Note from the author: Holy wow, a thank you to all the reviewers, followers, readers, etc. etc! I'll keep this mess going as long as even one of you is still interested! (Please stay interested ha)

This chapter is more disconnected (even more of Sherlock-being-a-mess) than the last, but for obvious reasons. It goes quickly, but clarification will come in good time.

Enjoy!

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"What the fuck did you take?"

_Again. Gruffer now, indication of concern?_ John sharply tugged the smooth fabric of Sherlock's robe with flaring nostrils. _No no, he was still far too angry. Haven't been punched yet. Rather unexpected._

The burning eyes broke away to read across his face, projecting the thousand thoughts that he would make verbal, if only he could rank them in priority. Or had the capacity to speak any of them right now without screaming or choking the detective. _John, the book, always reliable – open. _

They were probably things like 'You said you wouldn't, you were beyond it' _Didn't promise, don't make promises_ and 'Seriously, you thought I wouldn't know?' _wouldn't be the first time _and 'Christ, you're a complete idiot' _Please, John, petty fabrications for insult? _

He would have continued to pick at the smorgasbord of emotions and create the appropriate responses, but the entire room began rotating down, John's face out of view replaced by the cracked and water stained ceiling. _Off, definitely off._ He felt as if he were the mast of a ship, the environment creaking and rolling about him and he, calculating sudden emerging angles in the floor, was moving to compensate for them.

Straying, drifting…from a hideous rocky coastline teeming with shells of men and senseless notions. _Felt good._

There was murmuring then, sounds he should recognize, waters coming more turbulent,

_Shaking_.

_Oncoming squall? What was that stinging, left cheek felt raw. The spray of salt water? No no no no._ Suddenly he was lurched around, head spinning. _Not the mast, feels more like the bilge._ Something like water but warm was wrapping around the back of him, keeping him afloat. _Definitely in the bilge_.

It seemed like ages before the sea went still and then he was towed by a line.

_Not a line, no ocean. The flat, you idiot, we're in the living room. _

John. Syringe. Ember eyes burning his.

_He wasn't supposed to be here. He should have been gone for the night._

John was pulling him.

"What are you…?" Words were too thick_, peanut butter, unappealing, gagging. _Sherlock was being unceremoniously dragged backwards by a tight arm around his waist, but if it were to let go…w_(couldn't)ouldn't stand - wouldn't even try to. Certainly wouldn't help the current situation._ The arm jarred up and caught him just below his ribs _floating rib 12, false rib 10 _ to get a better grip, limiting the intake of his breath. _Visible contusions in 53 minutes, an iron deficiency: likely._

His bare heels sandpapered over the worn floor boards and the fuzzy Victorian wallpaper grew smaller till it disappeared behind the squeak of his bedroom door with a click. He surprised himself has he was pushed into the corner and was able to remain upright if he locked his knees and wedged his shoulder against the right angle. _Safety, refuge of the familiar, god_ the swaying and blinking image of his bed was so utterly inviting. He could only make out a third of it around the blurry figure in the foreground – the figure that anxiously ran finger's through its hair and shifted several times _would say, shut up, your primordial thinking is practically deafening - but it's not…can't hear it over this pleasant lulled quiet, the remembrance of the cotton knit blanket on the mattress– perfect weight and density, rolling on waves. Down, down._

The shape rushed close and pinned him by a hand back to the plaster, rattling the framed period table above him to slide crooked on its wire fixture.

The man before him paused and sighed with _relief, annoyance, no something else_. "Where's the rest of it?" John searched Sherlock's face and seethed at finding it impassable. The snakes of his forehead had slithered down to his neck now, thrumming up below a gritted jaw. _External jugular, superficial cervical artery... _

Pause. Nothing. Blood and quiet and _A rush of three cars outside, front wheel drives, one stick shift over the speed limit by at least 7 kilometers an hour, muffler should have been wired back on at least a month ago, going to hit a bump and lose it entirely within 2 days. Someone in the street, drunk from the pub at the corner, most likely - practically shouting into his mobile. Significant other. Fighting. He'd been cheating and was overcompensating with his accusations and protests. Obvious._

_Ugh, the concoction was losing some effect._

_Disappointing._

"Fine, you…" John's finger's flexed restlessly on the fabric above his chest, fixing him harder against the wall "Fine. If you won't tell me what it is at least tell me how much you took."

_Pause. _

_Collect. _

_Explain._

"You shouldn't be so worried. Do you think I'm such an idiot? It was a mild dosage and these effects just last an hour or so. _Mostly harmless_. Now get off me and let me sleep."

_Yes, yes. _

_That had been handled better than expected. Completely coherent._

The hand tightened painfully on his robe and into his chest.

_Well…_perhaps some of it had been lost in translation and might have been articulated somewhat differently.

"Yous' houldn't be…sush an idiot…jus'…get'f me"

_That certainly helped, bravo, encore._

"Alright that…" John's free hand was clenching again, perhaps into a fist, _cheek bone has been waiting. Get it over with already._ He unfurled his fingers, though, and rubbed them across his eyes. _Tired, lingering of beer on his breath. He'd had at least two pints on his date, but he has far more tolerance than that. Realized it wasn't going to work? Paid the bill but left early, chaste kiss on the cheek and come home. Seven to ten odds, but not able to be accurate now. _The hand on Sherlock's clothing yanked him forward. "Enough of this."

He was being towed again…the other firmly gripping his shoulder – his bedroom door opening? _Wrong, bathroom door opening._

"…What…Jah…" The florescent lights made him blink in pain, _pupils contracting rapidly to adjust to the influx of brightness –_ "Jus…sleep…"

The shower door unlatched

"Just…shut up, Sherlock."

He was thrust against the coated vinyl siding, slumping down as far as the enclosed space would allow. The stouter man – his doctor – friend- loomed over him with a face he'd yet to categorize, hands on one of the water valves.

_Oh._

_ OH._

Sherlock's eye's widened despite the light. "…wait…don't."

His companion seemed unphased, but given what was a risk, the lither man found the strength to brace up the shower walls and lean by the entrance.

"Don't…"

John's fiery eyes narrowed in challenge, waiting for Sherlock to – _measure the distance from the here to the door (4 meters), effort it would take to over power his mostly sober assailant (knee to groin, slap to the right side of the head, buckle right knee from behind with lower calf, over step attempt to trip from below, jam bed room door with arm chair, make a get away, hail a cab.) _

_ Too much effort._

"…Robe's…silk…"

Even in Dr. Watson's rage, a small flicker of amusement passed over his readable face, hands stilling,

Sherlock clumsily shrugged it off now bare-chested, tossed it at the man before him, and thudded back against the economical tiling.

_Fate accepted._

And then the foreboding sound of rushing water in the piping by his head, sputtering out of the circular jaws above. Cold water sprayed down in earnest, and there was no escape from it in the confined space, especially since John had swung the door shut and wedged it with his up turned bed side table.

The water soaked into him, flattening the high he'd previously maintained for some time. It would be so easy to reach up and shut it off, or even better – turn up the hot. However, John knew what he was dealing with, _hardly the first time he'd handled a man on drugs. Afghanistan, Helmed, largest opiate production in the country. Possibly held a habit of his own, broke it quickly, knowing his self restraint._ The doctor already knew that the drug would weigh him down and the cool of the water would bring him back to his senses.

However, the water wasn't necessary for that.

Just beyond the door there was a loud crash with John shouting out in shock. _Foot steps, another crash._

Sherlock thrashed his shoulder against the barricaded shower door.

_No no no. _

_John was in trouble._

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_Well? Would you like Sherlock's tutorial on how to escape a shower while drugged? (Etc.)  
_


	3. Interlude of the Shower

Note from author: I will not apologize for my delay. I will not apologize for the length.

Nope, I will apologize. This is what I will call an interlude given that I have so much more written and need to get over writer's block. If you bare with me, bless you. I often have shaky knees posting such small things. I have to thank those who have consistently read this even though I've neglected it. The hits have not ceased in amazing me and your comments have encouraged me to get over this nasty hump so I can connect the other chapters I have drafted.

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Sherlock nearly called out, but cut him self short as the cold stream thundered down his shoulders. _Making our presence known to the attacker, tisk, you know better. Hardly advantageous in this state. Ugh, sounds like Mycroft, shut up… _He sluggishly tugged at his hair in an attempt bring himself back to reality.

_Get out…how do we get out…think._

The door was skillfully jammed under an outside metal pull bar by the table, and especially given his current lack of coordination there was no way to shove it open. The shower had a twelve centimeter gap at the top two sides for ventilation, but trying to wriggle through that would prove futile and would very possibly end in a painful plummet back onto the floor drain. Break the tempered glass?_ Yes, brilliant, bleed out everywhere as the assailant rushes in to club you over the head. THINK._

_But think…_There was a nice humming off the walls around him, the symphony of water droplets striking their own distinct notes on the hollow and pattern-etched glass. He could hear the rivets of liquid surging down the horizontal surface around him adding a treble to the high tapping of initial contact. _Ah and the baritone of the current whirl pooling into the deep pipes below._

Gurgling comforting sounds of childhood – unplugging the bath till the water had swept up toy boats with superfluous sails held erect into a tornado fixed to the drain. They would clash together eternally in battle as the sea level sank around his boney knees – he could imagine the cannons going off, crew mates boarding with ropes swinging from the foremast's yard and sail rigging as the tub-tide sucked them together momentarily. Dramatic splays of afternoon light flitted through an open stained glass window across the claw footed tub. The boats would churn between the blue and red hues and from the open breeze of the garden lavender and lilac bellowed out the curtains as if to supplant his toy's mock up canvas. His fingers like prunes would wretch the hot water faucet on full, sending the death spiral into disarray, sinking a ship, prolonging his stay in the lavatory a little longer with a flood scalding his shins.

But this water wasn't warm, and that struck Sherlock's nerves more harshly than expected. The memory fractured like someone testing the shallow glazing of ice over a puddle of the first freeze. _More important._ The orchestra of shower spray died out with a slow twist of his wrist on the valve. _Important, we need to get out – why do we need to get out? Just turn on the hot._ Rustling and creaking of wood from behind his bedroom door came less muffled since he'd shut off the plumbing.

_John. More important._ Sherlock let his head slide back against his confinements, arching his bleary gaze upwards.

The hinges at the top of the door –

_bless you Mrs. Hudson for hiring cheap remodelers_ –

were starting to come loose.

If he could twist them out he would be able to use the bottom set as a fulcrum to clear the table. He braced a slipping foot to the corner of the wall and stood with the pathetic scrabbling of a fawn.

The metal of the screws dug sharply into his water logged flesh, but he had to be quick about the work. With the door turned on the straining bottom hinges as an axis, the bedside table gave just enough for to Sherlock flattened his shoulder and face against the glass, stretch out his arm though the gap at the floor, and seize one of the table's legs. He sent it clattering to the left, but the door, released from the tension, snapped back now, effectively bruising him just above his elbow.

He bit back cursed grumble as yet another crash with violent shuffling and clanging followed from behind the bedroom door. His concoction still coursed in his veins enough to dilute the physical pain, but it did nothing to quell the drive and panic that spiraled up in his spine. He stood swaying and shoved the door open now, though metal and tinted glass scraped and shuttered at the movement.

His soaked cotton pants left a foot shaped puddle for several steps until he braced a numb hand against the sink. _Stupid, stupid. Always cleaning up the messes you make._ His eyes met his own in the mirror but the connection was wavering like his was squinting down summer heated pavement. Nausea rolled up his esophagus, trapping a bubble of air he'd just shuttered in. He choked it down, hands flexing on the porcelain beneath, meeting his gaze again. Dark hair curled limply under the weight of water, but several insurgent locks had began to defy gravity with their untamed nature. Under the florescent light the shadows of his bones where more stark, was he _that gaunt? And pale? No, the last case was outdoors under that terribly blinding sun. Distracting glares off police car windows – made them move all of them away for a reason, couldn't focus on the obvious evidence. Anderson's sweaty forehead was nearly blinding. There had been flour on the grass. Just a bit, nearly eaten by the dew._

_No No, something important!_ More scuffling from beyond this very distracting room. Sherlock bitterly regretted replacing his barbers blade for an electric razor – at least he would have had an actual weapon.

A discernible grunt and crash forced him to dispel his stupored precautions.

Sherlock pressed one hand to the wood of the door, the other tightened into a fist. _Focus focus focus._

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_Anything you have to say is welcome.  
_


	4. Limits to You

Note for author: Whew, I've been parked on this one for far too long. Sherlock will get more of a response soon. I think. Hooray for finally writing a reasonably sized chapter.

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Sherlock gracelessly clamored through the doorway with his fist raised back, surveying the room before him for John's aggressor. His shelf in the corner had been turned over and leaned ajar haphazardly on the footboard of his bed. Its contents sprawled out like the rubble of a collapsed building to litter most of the floor. In a contrary manner, his desk had only a spattering of items remaining on the surface, less cluttered than it had been in months. There, out of the corner of his eye was movement. John was doubled over in the far corner. _Damn it, he was hurt._

Head still swimming, he stagger forward and cursed abruptly when he stepped on the shards of his bedside lamp's bulb.

"John? Where is he? Is there more than one?" The words were slurred and urgent, hushed in case the enemy was lingering in the hallway.

His flat mate, however, straightened and spun around with a seemingly vacant expression. Sherlock strained for any sound, but there was only the thrum thrum thrum in his head and the wet splats from his shower-soaked trousers.

"Sherlock, what-?" Suddenly John blanched, his mouth dropping in dawning realization. "Oh this is _rich_! _No one is attacking me_, you dolt."

"The room…you shouted. There was a scuffle, I _heard it_." His hand dropped to his side and he flitted the information together, lining up the edges like puzzle pieces.

John let out a short snicker as he yanked open the top drawer of the dresser with a raucous '_hu-thnk_'.

"You deliberately refused to tell me what you took, how much, and where it was." He seemed almost smug as he shoved the contents of his top drawer to the side, several socks thumping softly onto the hardwood. "I decided to find it myself." _Still angry. Yes, very much so._

John sucked the pad of his hand, eradicating a drip of blood from a cut received during his initial war against the inanimate belongings.

"Frankly I'm not going to put up with you drugged and blacking out again. _It's pathetic._"

"Pot and kettle." Sherlock hissed lowly, restraining a shiver as the cool London breeze latched tiny glacial pins from the waning window to his damp chest. _Enough of this_. Though he was still shifting, vision still seemingly a millisecond off from real time, he felt a trickle of his coherent thought returning."The number of times you've come home highly intoxicated has been quite…notable…in the last year."

"Oh – _bolluc_-!" John spat, shooting his finger accusingly, swallowing with a staunched '_ahum_' sound as if to internally dissuade himself from overturning the oak wardrobe.

Sherlock didn't wait for a retort, "Point fourteen percent blood alcohol content given how abundantly that cut is flowing; how many pints is that? Most of my experiments had more…say, scientific measurement practices – but given that I'd say you weigh…thereabouts of 176 pounds that would constitute you having four pints in the last hour of returning here." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest as if he meant to look clever, but it was fair to note that it was becoming rather cold in the room dripping wet and in lack of clothing. "That's an awful lot to drink in the last hour of your date. Though I'm sure you paid the bill when you told her it wasn't working out."

John's hands, in tune with his jaw, clenched to the point bones grating together could virtually be heard. "_Wrong,_ you know what, Sherlock, this time and not that I care how big of an ass you're being - you should know you weren't ever witty _as usual_. If you hadn't doped your self up so much you would have been quicker."

The detective narrowed his eyes at the layaway insult. Four pints _was_ a large amount to drink on a date. Surely John possessed more discretion. He wouldn't actively slight the woman by getting drunk before leaving her.

And there is was - the obvious bit of detail _practically in neon blinking lights, how was it missed?_ Traces of rose-tinted gloss highlighted the crest of John's cheek. Given the placement and slight distortion, John had been seated and she had been standing.

.

_Oh. How completely apparent._

_.  
_

"Why would _she_ end things?" Sherlock hardly desired a response, but John scoffed and provided one all the same.

"Oh, _I don't know, Sherlock_. The same reason the last three have?" John panned his arms out as if to an invisible crowd surging in laugher at his equally invisible punch line. Sherlock blinked and fought back another gust from the outside air, awaiting the acerbic finish. The roaring phantom theater died out, and it was only John and Sherlock.

_Ah. _

_...  
_

_That had been a rhetorical statement_.

"I hadn't even met this one, it's rather unfair to hold me at fault for it."

The sound that emitted from John was entirely void of mirth, but vaguely resembled a laugh.

"I get dumped and then have to deal with you high as a kite as soon as I get home. I'm sick of this, Christ, you are the last person I need to worry about more than I already do – _And forget it,_ that's not what we're on about anyway. I'm not going to even attempt to explain how relationships work to you. " He snatched up a small trinket box from the room's wreckage and emptied the contents. Teeth from varying sizes and locations in the mouth_ - 13 central and lateral incisors, 8 first and second bicupsids, 14 molars, 5 wisdom teeth – 15 of which procured from heavy smokers – _tumbled to the floor. The small bones skittered out like jacks across the grain of the wood, waiting for the ball that would never bounce with hands to sweep them up.

"No, you know what, I see what you're doing." John rubbed the back of his hand over his draining brow and finally noticed that it was far to cold outside to have let out the window. He slammed the frame down against the sill and rummaged around the stacks on the dresser.

"Don't even try to distract me from the bloody issue here." His edged voice echoed out from the wall he was facing. "This is about you being more of a carelessly egocentric git than your standard." He spun around shaking out one of his books by the spine and again thrust out his fore finger in his companion's direction menacingly. _Military habit, more than likely._ "You – poisoning yourself for _God_ knows why. I swear if I had had to come home to…if you had _fucking miscalculated_ your tolerance…"

Sherlock was quiet with his response and his words seemed to cling to the back of his throat. _Like peanut butter again, detested peanut butter_. His gaze eased up limply with a constrained sigh, forming letters into order slowly. "Tell me you're not actually concerned about me…finding me incapacitated…? That's a ridiculous conclusion to form just from tonight."

"Damn it, Sherlock." John snapped shut his encyclopedia _number 20 covering Geomorphic through Immunity, likely looking for cut out papers to store something. How endearingly prosaic. _"Yes, _of course_ I'm worried about that, but I know you - " He let out a frustrated chuckle, shaking his head "- You're anything from so unintelligent to _try to, or think you would _over dose. It's not…"

He paced heavily, as though if he didn't he'd kick something over or rip off Sherlock's window curtains. He opted to toss the hard cover down with manifest force to join the mound of others that had slid off his shelf. _Meta carpals and phalanges of fingers straightening, radius and ulna of the lower arm twisting with the action, brachioradialis and flexor carpi radialis more prominent of the anterior muscles from the release – _

_Stop_.

John rubbed both his hands over his face now _calculating what to say, John – infuriated to the point of this: ripping apart a room. His room. 37% more displeased than usual. _

"There are limits to you, Sherlock." John fastened a severe gaze to him, stabbing an unwelcome tremor in his chest at the weighty words.

"It's not just about that…you can't just…" Another nettled shifting of the head side to side, this one darker – more internal_._ "You can't do something like this to your self and think that it won't affect anyone else," his voice dipped softer now, but he didn't look up from his cyclical movement across the floor.

Sherlock meant so say something, his mouth even moved wide enough to form the words that were on his lips, though _unexpectedly? No. Frustratingly_ he wasn't yet sure what they were. John didn't have the courtesy to pause so he could work it out in his compromised mind, however.

"It matters to more people that you think, more people who care about you, and," An added sarcastic _pseudo-smile. _"Probably to more people than you care about."

_Oh that familiar tightening of the risorius and buccinator masseter, elongating the lips horizontally, brow furrowing in a decidedly fuming fashion indicating John was, for lack of at better word, disappointed._

The still sopping detective finally found a voice to interject, though it was hardly much of one at all.

_Weak, actually. Still not wholly cognizant, but close; becoming bothersome._

"This is my business, not theirs."

_Not theirs, they know nothing about the rational behind this. Slow, dull, judgmental, maudlin – all those barren old maids reveling at the chance to mend those they viewed broken – vainly attempting to revitalize their long passed motherly daydreams and place in needles with a piteously ineffective ruse of drugs – like being patched up with a kiss on the scrapped knee, those brainless portly nurses in pressed white and nauseating seafoam with sympathetic gazes and delusions that they – behind brick gates and colorless walls, hideous linoleum tiles, in the reek of bleach and bodily fluids forever imbedded into the atomic make up of the recycled air – they could make it all better, dive deep to the bottom, find the crack that would otherwise be filled with chemicals, and slap a bandage over it._

_Had quite enough of the 'they' Dr Watson. My business. _

"No -" John's hands flexed and then clenched into fists, light vermilion shading over his features, his voice surging up to an, until recently, untried level of ire. "It's not just about you, you selfish bastard! And you know what?!"

He breached the space between them rapidly, planting a vice grip on Sherlock's shoulder to the point his blunt nails cut into the flesh and pushing him back several fumbling steps. The other hand wielded the index finger that jabbed dangerously close to Sherlock's nose to accentuate every other word. "It's not even about finding you half dead on the sofa, or whether you've done this lately or whether you care about the people around you!"

His voice waxed into an impossibly more furious one, shaking Sherlock harshly just once, as if he thought it would bring him out of his stupor. "I'm the one that has to be able to _trust_ you! I have to follow you blindly without you telling me a damned thing every day, so the least you can do is make sure I know you're doing it completely aware you're risking both our lives!"

He laughed bitterly then, but his face was still tight _snakes hurriedly tunneling under the skin everywhere. Quite the infestation. _

"You _expect_ me to come bounding to your side at your every beck and call and _I do – for fu -"_ There was a slight choke of composition slipping, but his eyes locked back onto Sherlock's with conviction, "_I do_. And despite all that, I come home to a needle on the floor with you drooling on the cushions like you've been _lobotomized_ and tomorrow – I know you," He sneered, "Had I not said something now you would have acted like nothing happened, _like I was the idiot_, and still expected me to rely on you unquestioningly even though you've compromised yourself!"

John paused for half of a moment, practically egging on one of Sherlock's uncouth quips.

_John - I…_

"Well I'm sorry, Sherlock, but no, I won't. I might as well tell you even though you're all doped up. I'm not some well trained dog you can command around." The fingers on the taller man's bicep constricted just slightly _- subconscious_. "Last I checked I was your friend. You said it your self and you claim to never be wrong. I don't give a damn about all those obnoxiously complex justifications you're weaving together in that over-sized brain of yours right now. For once, just listen to someone who…who cares about you and has a good right to."

Some tension in him seemed to deflate at that. He guided his mute companion to the edge of the unmade bed, but still tersely shoved him onto it.

At least a minute passed with Sherlock fidgeting with the cotton knit blanket he thought of so fondly what seemed like hours ago. Maybe it had been. Now the cloth seemed to drain all cognitive thoughts from his mind through invisible water gates in his fingertips. John remained standing before him, tense, unrelenting, expecting an answer _but he hasn't knelt as though he was dealing with a child, should thank him for that. No, out of context, he's expecting an actual answer. An answer to the hurricane up rooting brain stems, trying to process even half of it. When did thinking become so difficult? _

_Oh that's right…needle piercing the median basilic vein, gentle push down of the index finger, nothingness radiating out through the body. That's when. He has a point. Does he?_

"Well?" John snapped. "What's you big excuse this time? Don't tell me now is the time you actually have nothing to say. How convenient!"

Another impregnated quiet wrapped gloved hands around Sherlock's vocal cords.

"_Ridiculous!_" John jeered darkly, turning on his heal toward the hallway. "Next time forget putting you in the shower, I'll just drag you to the emergency room and let Mycroft deal with you."

The door crashed shut behind him leaving the lanky man alone with that thought, though it felt like a thousand eyes were instantaneously scrutinizing him.

* * *

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